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POEMS OF PLEASURE 





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U. S. DEPARTMENT OF LABOR. 



Poems of Pleasure 



BY 

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX 



AUTHOR OF 

POEMS OF PASSION," " MAURINE," " MAL MOULEE,' 

ETC. 



CHICAGO! 

rjoRRILLHlGGINS^Go. 
1892. 






OOPYBIGHT BY 

BELFORD CLARKE & CO., 

1892. 

COPYRIGHT BY 

MORRILL, HIGGINS & CO. 
All rights reserved. 



CHICAGO 
""'NTERS AND BlNOt"* 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Part I. Passional . 7 

Part II. Philosophical ... 51 
Part III. Miscellaneous . . . 91 



PASSIONAL. 



Poems of Pleasure. 



SURRENDER. 

Love, when we met, 'twas like two planets meeting. 

Strange chaos followed ; body, soul, and heart 
Seemed shaken, thrilled, and startled by that greeting. 

Old ties, old dreams, old aims, all torn apart 
And wrenched away, left nothing there the while 

But the great shining glory of your smile. 

I knew no past ; 'twas all a blurred, bleak waste; 

I asked no future ; 'twas a blinding glare. 
I only saw the present : as men taste 

Some stimulating wine, and lose all care, 
I tasted Love's elixir, and I seemed 

Dwelling in some strange land, like one who dreamed. 



10 POEMS OF PLEA8UHK 

It was a godlike separate existence ; 

Our world was set apart in some fair clime. 
I had no will, no purpose, no resistance ; 

I only knew I loved you for all time. 
The earth seemed something foreign and afar, 

And we two, sovereigns dwelling in a star ! 

It is so sad, so strange, I almost doubt 

That all those years could be, before we met. 

Do you not wish that we could blot them out? 
Obliterate them wholly, and forget 

That we had any part in life until 

We clasped each other with Love's rapture thrill ? 

My being trembled to its very centre 

At that first kiss. Cold Reason stood aside 

With folded arms to let a grand Love enter 
In my Soul's secret chamber to abide. 

Its great High Priest, my first Love and my last, 
There on its altar I consumed my past. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. U 

And all my life I lay upon its shrine 

The best emotions of my heart and brain, 
Whatever gifts and graces may be mine ; 

No secret thought, no memory I retain, 
But give them all for dear Love's precious sake ; 

Complete surrender of the whole I make. 



12 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

THE BIRTH OF THE OPAL. 

The Sunbeam loved the Moonbeam, 
And followed her low and high, 

But the Moonbeam fled and hid her head, 
She was so shy — so shy. 

The Sunbeam wooed with passion ; 

Ah, he was a lover bold ! 
And his heart was afire with mad desire 

For the Moonbeam pale and cold. 

She fled like a dream before him, 
Her hair was a shining sheen, 

And oh, that Fate would annihilate 
The space that lay between ! 

Just as the day lay panting 

In the arms of the twilight dim, 

The Sunbeam caught the one he sought 
And drew her close to him. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 1& 

But out of his warm arms, startled 

And stirred by Love's first shock, 
She sprang afraid, like a trembling maid, 

And hid in the niche of a rock. 

And the Sunbeam followed and found her, 

And led her to Love's own feast ; 
And they were wed on that rocky bed, 

And the dying Day was their priest. 

And lo ! the beautiful Opal — 

That rare and wondrous gem — 
Where the moon and sun blend into one, 

Is the child that was born to them. 



14 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

THE DIFFERENCE. 

Passion is what the sun feels for the earth 
When harvests ripen into golden birth. 

Lust is the hot simoon whose burning breath 
Sweeps o'er the fields with devastating death. 

Passion is what God felt, the Holy One, 
Who loved the world so, He begot his Son. 

Lust is the impulse Satan peering in 

To Eden had, when he taught Eve to sin. 

One sprang from light, and one from darkness grew ! 
How dim the vision that confounds the two ! 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. !•> 



TWO LOVES 

The woman he loved, while he dreamed of her, 

Danced on till the stars grew dim, 
But alone with her heart, from the world apart, 

Sat the woman who loved him. 

The woman he worshipped only smiled, 
When he poured out his passionate love. 

But the other somewhere, kissed her treasure most rare, 
A book he had touched with his glove. 

The woman he loved betrayed his trust, 

And he wore the scars for life ; 
And he cared not, nor knew, that the other was true ; 

But no man called her his wife. 

The woman he loved trod festal halls, 

While they sang his funeral hymn, 
But the sad bells tolled, ere the year was old, 

For the woman who loved him 



16 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



THE WAY OF IT. 

This is the way of it, wide world over, 
One is beloved, and one is the lover, 

One gives and the other receives. 
One lavishes all in a wild emotion, 
One offers a smile for a life's devotion, 

One hopes and the other believes. 
One lies awake in the night to weep, 
And the other drifts off in a sweet sound sleep. 

One soul is aflame with a godlike passion, 
One plays with love in an idler's fashion, 

One speaks and the other hears. 
One sobs " I love you," and wet eyes show it, 
And one laughs lightly, and says " I know it," 

With smiles for the other's tears. 
One lives for the other and nothing beside, 
And the other remembers the world is wide. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 17 

This is the way of it, sad earth over, 

The heart that breaks is the heart of the lover, 

And the other learns to forget. 
" For what is the use of endless sorrow ? 
Though the sun goes down, k will rise to-morrcw ; 

And life is not over yet." 
Oh ! I know this truth, if I know no other, 
That passionate Love is Pain's own mother. 



18 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

ANGEL OR DEMON. 

You call me an angel of love and of light, 

A being of goodness and heavenly fire, 
Sent out from God's kingdom to guide you aright, 

In paths where your spirits may mount and aspire. 
You say that I glow like a star on its course, 
Like a ray from the altar, a spark from the source. 

Now list to my answer ; let all the world hear it, 
I speak unafraid what I know to be true : 

A pure, faithful love is the creative spirit 

Which makes women angels ! I live but in you. 

We are bound soul to soul by life's holiest laws; 

If I am an Angel — why you are the cause. 

As my ship skims the sea, I look up from the deck, 
Fair, firm at the wheel shines Love's beautiful form, 

And shall I curse the barque that last night went to wreck, 
By the Pilot abandoned to darkness and storm? 

My craft is no stauncher, she too had been lost — 

Had the wheelman deserted, or slept at his post. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 19 

I laid down the wealth of my soul at your feet 
(Some woman does this for some man every day). 

No desperate creature who walks in the street, 
Has a wickeder heart than I might have, I say, 

Had you wantonly misused the treasures you won, 

— As so many men with heart riches have done. 

This fire from God's altar, this holy love flame, 
That burns like sweet incense forever for you, 

Might now be a wild conflagration of shame, 

Had you tortured my heart, or been base or untrue. 

For angels and devils are cast in one mold, 

Till love guides them upward, or downward, I hold. 

I tell you the women who make fervent wives 

And sweet tender mothers, had Fate been less fair, 

Are the women who might have abandoned their lives 
To the madness that springs from and ends in despair. 

As the fire on the hearth which sheds brightness around, 

Neglected, may level the walls to the ground. 



20 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

The world makes grave errors in judging these things, 
Great good and great evil are born in one breast. 

Love horns us and hoofs us — or gives us our wings, 

And the best could be worst, as the worst could be best. 

You must tnank your own worth for what I grew to be, 

For the demon lurked under the angel in me. 



POEMS OB" PLEASURE. 21 



DAWN. 



Day's sweetest moments are at dawn ; 
Refreshed by his long sleep, the Light 
Kisses the languid lips of Night, 
Ere she can rise and hasten on. 
All glowing from his dreamless rest 
He holds her closely to his breast, 
Warm lip to lip and limb to limb, 
Until she dies for love of him. 



22 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



PEACE AND LOVE. 

There are two angels, messengers of light, 

Both born of God, who yet are bitterest foes. 

No human breast their dual presence knows. 
As violently opposed as wrong and right, 
When one draws near, the other takes swift flight 1 

And when one enters, thence the other goes. 

Till mortal life in the immortal flows, 
So must these two avoid each other's sight. 
Despair and hope may meet within one heart, 
The vulture may be comrade to the dove ! 
Pleasure and Pain swear friendship leal and true: 
But till the grave unites them, still apart 
Must dwell these angels known as Peace and Love, 
For only Death can reconcile the two. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 23 

THE INSTRUCTOR. 

Not till we meet with Love in all his beauty, 

In all his solemn majesty and worth, 
Can we translate the meaning of life's duty, 

Which God oft writes in cypher at our birth. 

Not till Love comes in all his strength and terror, 
Can we read other's hearts ; not till then know 

A wide compassion for all human error, 

Or sound the quivering depths of mortal woe. 

Not till we sail with him o'er stormy oceans, 
Have we seen tempests ; hidden in his hand 

He holds the keys to all the great emotions ; 
Till he unlocks them, none can understand. 

Not till we walk with him on lofty mountains, 

Can we quite measure heights. And, oh, sad truth ! 

When once we drink from his immortal fountains, 
We bid farewell to the light heart of youth. 



24 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

Thereafter our most perfect day will borrow 
A dimming shadow from some dreaded night. 

So great grows joy it merges into sorrow, 
And evermore pain tinctures our delight. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 25 



BLAS& 

The world has outlived all its passion, 

Its men are inane and blase*, 
Its women mere puppets of fashion; 

Life now is a comedy play. 
Our Abelard sighs for a season, 

Then yields with decorum to fate. 
Our Heloi.se listens to reason, 

And seeks a new mate. 

Our Romeo's flippant emotion 

Grows pale as the summer grows old ; 
Our Juliet proves her devotion 

By clasping — a cup filled with gold. 
Vain Anthony boasts of his favors 

From fair Cleopatra the frail, 
And the death of the sorceress savors 

Less of asps than of ale. 



26 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

With the march of bold civilization, 

Great loves and great faiths are down-trod, 
They belonged to an era and nation 

All fresh with the imprint of God. 
High culture emasculates feeling, 

The over-taught brain robs the heart, 
And the shrine now where mortals are kneeling 

Is a commonplace mart. 

Our effeminate fathers and brothers 

Keep carefully out of life's storm, 
From the ladylike minds of our mothers 

We are taught that to feel is " bad form." 
Our worshippers now and our lovers 

Are calmly devout with their brains, 
And we laugh at the man who discovers 

Warm blood in his veins. 

But you. twin souls, passion-mated, 
Who love as the gods loved of old, 

What blundering destiny fated 
Your lives to be cast in this mold ? 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 27 

Like a lurid volcanic upheaval, 

In pastures prosaic and gray, 
You seem with your fervors primeval, 

Among us to-day. 

You dropped from some planet of splendor, 

Perhaps as it circled afar, 
And your constancy, swerveless and tender, 

You learned from the course of that star. 
Fly back to its bosom, I warn you — 

As back to the ark flew the dove — 
The minions of earth will but scorn you, 

Because you can love. 



28 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



THE SEA-BREEZE AND THE SCARF. 

Hung on the casement that looked o'er the main, 

Fluttered a scarf of blue ; 
And a gay, bold breeze paused to flatter and tease 

This trifle of delicate hue. 
" You are lovelier far than the proud skies are," 

He said with a voice that sighed; 
" You are fairer to me than the beautiful sea, 

Oh, why do you stay here and hide? 

"You are wasting your life in that dull, dark room 

(And he fondled her silken folds), 
O'er the casement lean but a little, my Queen, 

And see what the great world holds. 
How the wonderful blue of your matchless hue, 

Cheapens both sea and sky — 
You are far too bright to be hidden from sight, 

Come, fly with me, darling — fly." 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

Tender his whisper and sweet his caress, 

Flattered and pleased was she, 
The arms of her lover lifted her over 

The casement out to sea. 
Close to his breast she was fondly pressed, 

Kissed once by his laughing mouth ; 
Then dropped to her grave in the cruel wave, 

While the wind went whistling south. 



29 



30 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



THREE AND ONE. 

Sometimes she seems so helpless and so mild, 
So full of sweet unreason and so weak, 
So prone to some capricious whim or freak ; 

Now gay, now tearful, and now anger-wild, 

By her strange moods of waywardness beguiled 
And entertained, I stroke her pretty cheek, 
And soothing words of peace and comfort speak; 

And love her as a father loves a child. 

Sometimes when I am troubled and sore pressed 
On every side by fast-advancing care, 
She rises up with such majestic air, 

I deem her some Olympian Goddess-guest, 

Who brings my heart new courage, hope, and rest j 
In her brave eyes dwells balm for my despair, 
And then I seem, while fondly gazing there, 

A loving child upon my Mother's breast. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 31 

Again, when her warm veins are full of life, 
And youth's volcanic tidal wave of fire 
Sends the swift mercury of her pulses higher, 

Her beauty stirs my heart to maddening strife, 

And all the tiger in my blood is rife ; 
I love her with a lover's fierce desire, 
And find in her my dream, complete, entire, 

Child, Mother, Mistress — all in one word — Wife. 



32 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



INBORN. 



As long as men have eyes wherewith to gaze, 

As long as men have eyes, 
The sight of beauty to their sense shall be 
As mighty winds are to a sleeping sea 

When stormy billows rise. 
And beauty's smile shall stir youth's ardent blood 
As rays of sunlight burst the swelling bud ; 

As long as men have eyes wherewith to gaze. 

As long as men have words wherewith to praise, 

As long as men have words, 
They shall describe the softly-moulded breast, 
Where Love and Pleasure make their downy nest, 

Like little singing birds ; 
And lovely limbs, and lips of luscious fire, 
Shall be the theme of many a poet's lyre, 

As long as men have words wherewith to praise. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 33 

As long as men have hearts that long for homes, 

As long as men have hearts, 
Hid often like the acorn in the earth, 
Their inborn love of noble woman's worth, 

Beyond all beauty's arts, 
Shall stem the sensuous current of desire, 
And urge the world's best thought to something higher, 

As long as men have hearts that long for homes. 



34 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



TWO PRAYERS. 

HIS. 

Dear, when you lift your gentle heart in prayer, 
Ask God to send his angel Death to me 
Long ere he comes to you, if that may be. 

I would dwell with you in that new life there, 
But having, man-like, sinned, I must prepare, 
By sad probation, ere I hope to see 
Those upper realms which are at once thrown free 
To sweet, white souls like yours, unstained and fair. 

Time is so brief on earth, I well might spare 
A few short years, if so I could atone 
For my marred past, ere you are called above. 

My soul would glory in its own despair, 
Till purified I met you at God's throne, 
And entered on Eternities of Love. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 35 



HERS. 

Nay, Love, not so I frame my prayer to God ; 
I want you close beside me to the end ; 
If it could be, I would have Him send 

A simultaneous death, and let one sod 

Cover our two hushed hearts. If you have trod 
Paths strange to me on earth, oh, let me wend 
My way with yours hereafter : let me blend 
My tears with yours beneath the chastening rod. 

If you must pay the penalty for sin, 

In vales of darkness, ere you pass on higher, 
I will petition God to let me go. 

I would not wait on earth, nor enter in 
To any joys before you. I desire 
No glory greater than to share your woe. 



36 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



SLEEP AND DEATH. 

When sleep drops down beside my Love and me> 
Although she wears the countenance of a friend, 
A jealous foe we prove her in the end. 
In separate barques far out on dreamland's sea, 
She lures our wedded souls. Wild winds blow free, 

And drift us wide apart by tides that tend 
Tow'rd unknown worlds. Not once our strange ways blend 
Through the long night, while Sleep looks on in glee. 

O, Death ! be kinder than thy sister seems, 
When at thy call we journey forth some day, 
Through that mysterious and unatlased strait, 

To lands more distant than the land of dreams ; 
Close, close together let our spirits stay, 
Or else, with one swift stroke, annihilate ! 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 37 



ABSENCE. 

After you went away, our lovely room 

Seemed like a casket whence the soul had fled. 

I stood in awful and appalling gloom, 

The world was empty and all joy seemed dead. 

I think I felt as one might feel who knew 
That Death had left him on the earth alone. 

For " all the world " to my fond heart means you, 
And there is nothing left when you are gone. 

Each way I turned my sad, tear-blinded gaze, 
I found fresh torture to augment my grief; 

Some new reminder of the perfect days 
We passed together, beautiful as brief. 

There lay a pleasing book that we had read — 
And there your latest gift ; and everywhere 

Some tender act, some loving word you said, 
Seemed to take form and mock at my despair. 



rOEMS OF PLEASURE. 

All happiness that human heart may know 
I find with you ; and when you go away, 

Those hours become a winding-sheet of woe, 
And make a ghastly phantom of To-day. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 39 



LOVE MUCH. 

Love much. Earth has enough of bitter in it. 

Cast sweets into its cup whene'er you can. 
No heart so hard, but love at last may win it. 

Love is the grand primeval cause of man. 

All hate is foreign to the first great plan. 

Love much. Your heart will be led out to slaughter, 
On altars built of envy and deceit. 

Love on, love on ! 'tis bread upon the water ; 
It shall be cast in loaves yet at your feet, 
Unleavened manna, most divinely sweet. 

Love much. Your faith will be dethroned and shaken, 
Your trust betrayed by many a fair, false lure. 

Remount your faith, and let new trusts awaken. 

Though clouds obscure them, yet the stars are pure; 
Love is a vital force and must endure. 



40 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

Love much. Mens' souls contract with cold suspicion 
Shine on them with warm love, and they expand. 

'Tis love, not creeds, that from a low condition 
Leads mankind up to heights supreme and grand. 
Oh, that the world could see and understand ! 

Love much. There is no waste in freely giving ; 
More blessed is it, even, than to receive. 

He who loves much, alone finds life worth living, 
Love on, through doubt and darkness ; and believe 
There is no thing which Love may not achieve. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 41 

ONE OF US TWO. 

The day will dawn, when one of us shall hearken 
In vain to hear a voice that has grown dumb. 

And morns will fade, noons pale, and shadows darken, 
While sad eyes watch for feet that never come. 

One of us two must sometime face existence 
Alone with memories that but sharpen pain. 

And these sweet days shall shine back in the distance, 
Like dreams of summer dawns, in nights of rain. 

One of us two, with tortured heart half broken, 
Shall read long-treasured letters through salt tears, 

Shall kiss with anguished lips each cherished token, 
That speaks of these love-crowned, delicious years. 

One of us two shall find all light, all beauty, 

All joy on earth, a tale forever done ; 
Shall know henceforth that life means only duty. 

Oh, God ! Oh, God ! have pity on that one. 



42 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

HER REVERIE. 

We were both of us — aye, we were both of us there, 
In the self-same house at the play together, 

To her it was summer, with bees in the air — 
To me it was winter weather. 

We never had met, and yet we two 

Had played in desperate woman fashion, 

A game of life, with a prize in view, 
And oh ! I played with passion. 

'Twas a game that meant heaven and sweet home-life, 
For the one who went forth with a crown upon her; 

For the one who lost — it meant lone strife, 
Sorrow, despair, and dishonor. 

Well, she won (yet it was not she — 
I am told that she was a praying woman : 

No earthly power could outwit me — 
But her's was superhuman). 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 43 

She has the prize, and I have — well, 

Memories sweeter than joys of heaven ; 
Memories fierce as the fires of hell — 

Those unto me were given. 

And we sat in the self-same house last night ; 

And he was there. It is no error 
When I say (and it gave me keen delight) 

That his eye met mine with terror. 

When the love we have won at any cost 

Has grown familiar as some old story, 
Naught seems so dear as the love we lost, 

All bright with the Past's weird glory. 

And tho' he is fond of that woman, I know — 

I saw in his eyes the brief confession — 
That the love seemed sweeter which he let go 

Than that in his possession. 



44 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

So I am content. It would be the same 
Were I the wife love-crowned and petted, 

And she the woman who lost the game — 
Then she were the one regretted. 

And loving him so, I would rather be 
The one he let go — and then vaguely desired, 

Than, winning him, once in his face to see 
The look of a love grown tired. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE, 45 



TWO SINNERS. 

There was a man, it was said one time, 

Who went astray in his youthful prime. 

Can the brain keep cool and the heart keep quiet 

When the blood is a river that's running riot? 

And boys will be boys the old folks say, 

And a man is the better who's had his day. 

The sinner reformed ; and the preacher told 
Of the prodigal son who came back to the fold. 
And Christian people threw open the door, 
With a warmer welcome than ever before. 
Wealth and honor were his to command, 
And a spotless woman gave him her hand. 

And the world strewed their pathway with blossoms aboom, 
Crying " God bless ladye, and God bless groom ! " 



46 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

There was a maiden who went astray 
In the golden dawn of her life's young day. 
She had more passion and heart than head, 
And she followed blindly where fond Love led. 
And Love unchecked is a dangerous guide 
To wander at will by a fair girl's side. 

The woman repented and turned from sin, 

But no door opened to let her in. 

The preacher prayed that she might be forgiven> 

But told her to look for mercy — in Heaven. 

For this is the law of the earth, we know : 

That the woman is stoned, while the man may go. 

A brave man wedded her after all, 

But the world said, frowning, "We shall not call." 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 47 



WHAT LOVE IS. 
Love is the centre and circumference 



The cause and aim of all things — 'tis the key 
To joy and sorrow, and the recompense 
For all the ills that have been, or may be. 

Love is as bitter as the dregs of sin, 

As sweet as clover-honey in its cell ; 
Love is the password whereby souls get in 

To Heaven — the gate that leads, sometimes, to Hell. 

Love is the crown that glorifies ; the curse 

That brands and burdens ; it is life and death. 

It is the great law of the universe ; 

And nothing can exist without its breath. 

Love is the impulse which directs the world, 
And all things know it and obey its power. 

Man, in the maelstrom of his passions whirled ; 
The bee that takes the pollen to the flower ; 



48 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

The earth, uplifting her bare, pulsing breast 
To fervent kisses of the amorous sun; — 

Each but obeys creative Love's behest, 
Which everywhere instinctively is done. 

Love is the only thing that pays for birth, 

Or makes death welcome. Oh, dear God above 

This beautiful but sad, perplexing earth, 

Pity the hearts that know — or know not — Love ! 



POEMS OB 1 PLEASURE, 



CONSTANCY. 

I will be true. Mad stars forsake their courses, 

And led by reckless meteors, turn away 
From paths appointed by Eternal Forces ; 

But my fixed heart shall never go astray. 
Like those calm worlds whose sun-directed motion 

Is undisturbed by strife of wind or sea, 
So shall my swerveless and serene devotion 

Sweep on forever, loyal unto thee. 

I will be true. The fickle tide, divided 

Between two wooing shores, in wild unrest 
May to and fro shift always undecided ; 

Not so the tide of Passion in my breast. 
With the grand surge of some resistless river, 

That hurries on, past mountain, vale, and sea, 
Unto the main, its waters to deliver, 

So my full heart keeps all its wealth for thee. 



49 



50 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

I will be true. Light barques may be belated, 

Or turned aside by every breeze at play, 
While sturdy ships, well manned and richly freighted, 

With fair sails flying, anchor safe in Bay. 
Like some firm rock, that, steadfast and unshaken, 

Stands all unmoved when ebbing billows flee, 
So would my heart stand, faithful if forsaken — 

I will be true, though thou art false to me. 



PHILOSOPHICAL. 



i 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 53 



RESOLVE, 



As the dead year is clasped by a dead December, 

So let your dead sins with your dead days lie. 
A new life is yours, and a new hope. Remember, 

We build our own ladders to climb to the sky. 
Stand out in the sunlight of Promise, forgetting 

Whatever the Past held of sorrow or wrong. 
We waste half our strength in a useless regretting ; 

We sit by old tombs in the dark too long. 

Have you missed in your aim 1 Well, the mark is still shining. 

Did you faint in the race 1 Well, take breath for the next. 
Did the clouds drive you back ? But see yonder their lining. 

Were you tempted and fell % Let it serve for a text. 
As each year hurries by let it join that procession 

Of skeleton shapes that march down to the Past, 
While you take your place in the line of Progression, 

With your eyes on the heavens, your face to the blast. 



54 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

1 tell you the future can hold no terrors 

For any sad soul while the stars revolve, 
If he will stand firm on the grave of his errors, 

And instead of regretting, resolve, resolve. 
It is never too late to begin rebuilding, 

Though all into ruins your life seems hurled, 
For see how the light of the New Year is gilding 

The wan, worn face of the bruised old world. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 55 



OPTIMISM. 

I'm no reformer ; for I see more light 
Than darkness in the world ; mine eyes are quick 
To catch the first dim radiance of the dawn, 
And slow to note the cloud that threatens storm. 
The fragrance and the beauty of the rose 
Delight me so, slight thought I give its thorn ; 
And the sweet music of the lark's clear song, 
$tays longer with me than the night hawk's cry. 
And e'en in this great throe of pain called Life, 
I find a rapture linked with each despair, 
Well worth the price of Anguish. I detect 
More good than evil in humanity. 
Love lights more fires than hate extinguishes, 
And men grow better as the world grows old* 



56 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

PAIN'S PROOF. 

I think man's great capacity for pain 

Proves his immortal birthright. I am sure 

No merely human mind could bear the strain 
Of some tremendous sorrows we endure. 

Art's most ingenious breastworks fail at length, 
Beat by the mighty billows of the sea ; 

Only the God-formed shores possess the strength 
To stand before their onslaughts, and not flee. ♦ 

The structure that we build with careful toil, 
The tempest lays in ruins in an hour ; 

While some grand tree that springs forth from the soil 
Is bended but not broken by its power. 

Unless our souls had root in soil divine 

We could not bear earth's overwhelming strife. 

The fiercest pain that racks this heart of mine, 
Convinces me of everlasting life. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 57 

IMMORTALITY- 

Immortal life is something to be earned, 
By slow self-conquest, comradeship with Pain, 
And patient seeking after higher truths. 
We cannot follow our own wayward wills, 
And feed our baser appetites, and give 
Loose rein to foolish tempers year on' year, 
And then cry, "Lord forgive me, I believe," 
And straightway bathe in glory. Men must learn 
God's system is too grand a thing for that. 
The spark divine dwells in our souls, and we 
Can fan it to a steady flame of light, 
Whose lustre gilds the pathway to the tomb, 
And shines on through Eternity, or else 
Neglect it till it glimmers down to Death, 
And leaves us but the darkness of the grave. 
Each conquered passion feeds the living flame ; 
Each well-borne sorrow is a step towards God ; 
Faith cannot rescue, and no blood redeem 



58 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

The soul that will not reason and resolve. 
Lean on thyself, yet prop thyself with prayer 
(All hope is prayer ; who calls it hope no more, 
Sends prayer footsore forth over weary wastes, 
While he who calls it prayer gives wings to hope), 
And there are spirits, messengers of Love, 
Who come at call and fortify our strength. 
Make friends with them, and with thine inner self; 
Cast out all envy, bitterness, and hate; 
And keep the mind's fair tabernacle pure. 
Shake hands with Pain, give greeting unto Grief, 
Those angels in disguise, and thy glad soul 
From height to height, from star to shining star, 
Shall climb and claim blest immortality. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 59 

ANSWERED PRAYERS. 

I prayed for riches, and achieved success ; 

All that I touched turned into gold. Alas ! 
My cares were greater and my peace was less, 

When that wish came to pass. 

I prayed for glory, and I heard my name 
Sung by sweet children and by hoary men. 

But ah ! the hurts — the hurts that come with fame ! 
I was not happy then. 

I prayed for Love, and had my heart's desire. 

Through quivering heart and body, and through brain 
There swept the flame of its devouring fire, 

And but the scars remain. 

I prayed for a contented mind. At length 
Great light upon my darkened spirit burst. 

Great peace fell on me also, and great strength — 
Oh, had that prayer been first ! 



60 POEMS OF PLEASURE 



THE LADY OF TEARS. 

Through valley and hamlet and city, 

Wherever humanity dwells, 
With a heart full of infinite pity, 

A breast that with sympathy swells, 
She walks in her beauty immortal. 

Each household grows sad as she nears 
But she crosses at length every portal, 

The mystical Lady of Tears. 

If never this vision of sorrow 

Has shadowed your life in the past, 
You will meet her, I know, some to-morrow 

She visits all hearthstones at last. 
To hovel, and cottage, and palace, 

To servant and king she appears, 
And offers the gall of her chalice — 

The unwelcome Lady of Tears. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 61 



To the eyes that have smiled but in gla3ness 5 

To the souls that have basked in the sun, 
- She seems in her garments of sadness, 

A creature to dread and to shun. 
And lips that have drank but of pleasure 

Grow pallid and tremble with fears, 
As she portions the gall from her measure, 

The merciless Lady of Tears. 



But in midnight, lone hearts that are quaking, 

With the agonized numbness of grief, 
Are saved from the torture of breaking, 

By her bitter-sweet draught of relief. 
Oh, then do all graces enfold her ; 

Like a goddess she looks and appears, 
And the eyes overflow that behold her — 

The beautiful Lady of Tears. 



62 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

Though she turns to lamenting, all laughter, 

Though she gives us despair for delight, 
Life holds a new meaning thereafter, 

For those who will greet her aright. 
They stretch out their hands to each other, 

For Sorrow unites and endears, 
The children of one tender mother 

The sweet, blessed Lady of Tears. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 63 

THE MASTER HAND. 

It is something too strange to understand, 

How all the chords on the instrument, 
Whether sorrowful, blithe, or grand, 
Under the touch of your master hand 

Were into one melody blent. 
Major, minor, everything — all — 
Came at your magic fingers' call. 

Why ! famed musicians had turned in despair 
Again and again from those self -same keys j 

They mayhap brought forth a simple air, 

But a discord always crept in somewhere, 
In their fondest efforts to please. 

Or a jarring, jangling, meaningless strain 

Angered the silence to noisy pain. 

"Out of tune," they would frown and say; 
Or " a loosened key " or " a broken string ; w 



64 POEMS OF PLEASURE 

But sure and certain they were alway, 
That no man living on earth could play 

Measures more perfect, or bring 
Sweeter sounds or a truer air 
Out of that curious instrument there. 

And then you came. You swept the scale 
With a mighty master's wonderful art. 

You made the minor keys sob and wail, 

While the low notes rang like a bell in a gale. 
And every chord in my heart, 

From the deep bass tones to the shrill ones above. 

Joined into that glorious harmony — Love. 

And now, though I live for a thousand years, 

On no new chord can a new hand fall. 
The chords of sorrow, of pain, of tears , 
The chords of raptures and hopes and fears, 

I say you have struck them all ; 
And all the meaning put into each strain 
By the Great Composer, you have made plain. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 66 

SECRET THOUGHTS. 

I hold it true that thoughts are things 
Endowed with bodies, breath, and wings, 
And that we send them forth to fill 
The world with good results — or ill. 

That which we call our secret thought 
Speeds to the earth's remotest spot, 
And leaves its blessings or its woes 
Like tracks behind it as it goes. 

It is God's law. Remember it 

In your still chamber as you sit 

With thoughts you would not dare have known, 

And yet make comrades when alone. 

These thoughts have life ; and they will fly 
And leave their impress by- and -by, 
Like some marsh breeze, whose poisoned breath 
Breathes into homes its fevered breath. 

5 



66 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

And after you have quite forgot 
Or all outgrown some vanished thought, 
Back to your mind to make its home, 
A dove or raven, it will come. 

Then let your secret thoughts be fair ; 
They have' a vital part and share 
In shaping worlds and molding fate — 
God's system is so intricate. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 67 

THERE COMES A TIME. 

There comes a time to every mortal being, 

Whate'er his station or his lot in life, 
"When his sad soul yearns for the final freeing 

From all this jarring and unceasing strife. 

There comes a time, when, having lost its savor, 
The salt of wealth is worthless ; when the mind 

Grows wearied with the world's capricious favor, 
And sighs for something that it cannot find. 

There comes a time, when, though kind friends are thronging < 
About our pathway with sweet acts of grace, 

We feel a vast and overwhelming longing 
For something that we cannot name or place. 

There comes a time, when, with earth's best love by us, 
To feed the heart's great hunger and desire, 

We find not even this can satisfy us ; 

The soul within us cries for something higher. 



68 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

What greater proof need we that we inherit 
A life immortal in another sphere 1 

It is the homesick longing of the spirit 
That cannot find its satisfaction here. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



THE WORLD. 



With noiseless steps good goes its way ; 

The earth shakes under evil's tread. 

We hear the uproar, and 'tis said, 
The world grows wicked every day. 

It is not true. With quiet feet, 
In silence, Virtue sows her seeds; 
While Sin goes shouting out his deeds, 

And echoes listen and repeat, 

But surely as the old world moves, 
And circles round the shining sun, 
So surely does God's purpose run, 

And all the human race improves. 

Despite bold evil's noise and stir, 
Truth's golden harvests ripen fast; 
The Present far outshines the Past ; 

Men's thoughts are higher than they were. 



70 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

Who runs may read this truth, I say: 
Sin travels in a rumbling car, 
While Virtue soars on like a star— 

The world grows better every day. 



POEMS OF PLEAStrHE. 71 

NECESSITY. 

Necessity, whom long I deemed my foe, 

Thou cold, unsmiling, and hard-visaged dame, 

Now I no longer see thy face, I know 
Thou wert my friend beyond reproach or blame. 

My best achievements and the fairest flights 
Of my winged fancy were inspired by thee ; 

Thy stern voice stirred me to the mountain heights ; 
Thy importunings bade me do and be. 

But for thy breath, the spark of living fire 

"Within me might have smouldered out at length ; 

But for thy lash which would not let me tire, 
I never would have measured my own strength. 

But for thine ofttimes merciless control 
Upon my life, that nerved me past despair, 

I never should have dug deep in my soul 

And found the mine of treasures hidden there. 



T2 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

And though we walk divided pathways now, 
And I no more may see thee, to the end, 

I weave this little chaplet for thy brow, 

That other hearts may know, and hail thee friend. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 73 

ACHIEVEMENT. 

Trust in thine own untried capacity 

As thou wouldst trust in God himself. Thy soul 

Is but an emanation from the whole. 
Thou dost not dream what forces lie in thee, 
Vast and unfathomed as the grandest sea. 

Thy silent mind o'er diamond caves may roll, 

Go seek them — but let pilot will control 
Those passions which thy favoring winds can be. 

No man shall place a limit in thy strength ; 

Such triumphs as no mortal ever gained 

May yet be thine if thou wilt but believe 
In thy Creator and thyself. At length 

Some feet will tread all heights now unattained — 

Why not thine own 1 Press on ; achieve ! achieve ! 



74 POEMS OF PLEASURE 

BELIEF. 

The pain we have to suffer seems so broad, 
Set side-by- side with this life's narrow span, 

We need no greater evidence that God 
Has some diviner destiny for man. 

He would not deem it worth his while to send 
Such crushing sorrows as pursue us here, 

Unless beyond this fleeting journey's end 
Our chastened spirits found another sphere. 

So small this world ! So vast its agonies ! 

A future life is needed to adjust 
These ill-proportioned, wide discrepancies 

Between the spirit and its frame of dust. 

So when my soul writhes with some aching grief, 
And all my heart-strings tremble at the strain, 

My Reason lends new courage to Belief, 
And all God's hidden purposes seems plain. 



/ 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 75 

WHATEVER IS — IS BEST. 

I know as my life grows older, 

And mine eyes have clearer sight — 
That under each rank wrong, somewhere 

There lies the root of Right; 
That each sorrow has its purpose, 

By the sorrowing oft unguessed, 
But as sure as the sun brings morning, 

Whatever is — is best. 

I know that each sinful action, 

As sure as the night brings shade, 
Is somewhere, sometime punished, 

Tho' the hour be long delayed. 
I know that the soul is aided 

Sometimes by the heart's unrest, 
And to grow means often to suffer — 

But whatever is — is best. 



76 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

I know there are no errors, 

In the great Eternal plan, 
And all things work together 

For the final good of man. 
And I know when my soul speeds onward, 

In its grand Eternal quest, 
I shall say as I look back earthward, 

Whatever is — is best. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 77 

PEACE AT THE GOAL. 

From the soul of a man who was homeless 

Came the deathless song of home. 
And the praises of rest are chanted best 

By those who are forced to roam. 

In a time of fast and hunger, 

"We can talk over feasts divine ; 
But the banquet done, why, where is the one 

"Who can tell you the taste of the wine ? 

"We think of the mountain's grandeur 

As we walk in the heat afar — 
But when we sit in the shadows of it 

We think how at rest we are. 

"With the voice of the craving passions 

"We can picture a love to come. 
But the heart once filled, lo, the voice is stilled, 

And we stand in the silence — dumb. 



78 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

THE LAW. 

Life is a Shylock ; always it demands 
The fullest usurer's interest for each pleasure. 
Gifts are not freely scattered by its hands ; 
We make returns for every borrowed treasure. 

Each talent, each achievement, and each gain 
Necessitates some penalty to pay. 
Delight imposes lassitude and pain, 
As certainly as darkness follows day. 

All you bestow on causes or on men, 
Of love or hate, of malice or devotion, 
Somehow, sometime, shall be returned again — 
There is no wasted toil, no lost emotion. 

The motto of the world is give and take. 
It gives you favors — out of sheer goodwill, 
But unless speedy recompense you make, 
You'll find yourself presented with its bill. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 79 

"When rapture comes to thrill the heart of you, 
Take it with tempered gratitude. Remember, 
Some later time the interest will fall due. 
No year brings June that- does not bring December. 



80 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

RECOMPENSE. 

Straight through my heart this fact to-day 3 
By Truth's own hand is driven : 

God never takes one thing away, 
But something else is given. 

I did not know in earlier years, 
This law of love and kindness ; 

I only mourned through bitter tears 
My loss, in sorrow's blindness. 

But, ever following each regret 
O'er some departed treasure, 

My sad repining heart was met 
"With unexpected pleasure. 

I thought it only happened so ; 

But Time this truth has taught me — 
No least thing from my life can go, 

But something else is brought me. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 8] 

It is the Law, complete, sublime ; 

And now with Faith unshaken, 
In patience I but bide my time, 

When any joy is taken. 

No matter if the crushing blow 

May for the moment down me, 
Still, back of it waits Love, I know, 

With some new gift to crown me. 



82 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



DESIRE. 

No joy for which thy hungering heart has panted. 
No hope it cherishes through waiting years, 
But if thou dost deserve it, shall be granted 
For with each passionate wish the blessing nears. 

Tune up the fine, strong instrument of thy being 
To chord with thy dear hope, and do not tire. 
When both in key and rythm are agreeing, 
Lo ! thou shalt kiss the lips of thy desire. 

The thing thou cravest so waits in the distance, 
Wrapt in the silences, unseen and dumb : 
Essential to thy soul and thy existence — 
Live worthy of it — call, and it shall come. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 83 

DEATHLESS. 

There lies in the centre of each man's heart, 
A longing and love for the good and pure ; 

And if but an atom, or larger part, 

I tell you this shall endure — endure — 

After the body has gone to decay — 
Yea, after the world has passed away. 

The longer I live and the more I see 

Of the struggle of souls toward the heights above, 
The stronger this truth comes home to me : 

That the Universe rests on the shoulders of love ; 
A love so limitless, deep, and broad, 

That men have renamed it and called it — God. 

And nothing that ever was born or evolved, 

Nothing created by light or force, 
But deep in its system there lies dissolved 

A shining drop from the Great Love Source; 
A shining drop that shall live for aye — 

Though kingdoms may perish and stars decay. 



84 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

KEEP OUT OF THE PAST. 

Keep out of the Past ! for its highways 

Are damp with malarial gloom ; 
Its gardens are sere and its forests are drear, 

And everywhere moulders a tomb. 
Who seeks to regain its lost pleasures, 

Finds only a rose turned to dust ; 
And its storehouse of wonderful treasures 

Are covered and coated with rust. 

Keep out of the Past. It is haunted : 

He who in its avenues gropes, 
Shall find there the ghost of a joy prized the most, 

And a skeleton throng of dead hopes. 
In place of its beautiful rivers, 

Are pools that are stagnant with slime ; 
And these graves gleaming white in a phosphoroic light, 

Hide dreams that were slain in their prime. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 85 

Keep out of the Past. It it is lonely, 

And barren and bleak to the view; 
Its fires have grown cold, and its stories are old — 

Turn, turn to the Present — the New : 
To-day leads you up to the hilltops 

That are kissed by the radiant sun, 
To-day shows no tomb, life's hopes are in bloom, 

And to-day holds a prize to be won. 



86 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

THE FAULT OF THE AGE. 

The fault of the age is a mad endeavor 

To leap to heights that were made to climb : 

By a burst of strength, of a thought most clever, 
We plan to forestall and outwit Time. 

We scorn to wait for the thing worth having ; 

We want high noon at the day's dim dawn ; 
We find no pleasure in toiling and saving, 

As our forefathers did in the old times gone. 

We force our roses, before their season, 
To bloom and blossom for us to wear ; 

And then we wonder and ask the reason 
Why perfect buds are so few and rare. 

We crave the gain, but despise the getting; 

We want wealth — not as reward, but dower ; 
And the strength that is wasted is useless fretting 

Would fell a forest or build a tower. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 87 

To covet the prize, yet to shrink from the winning; 

To thirst for glory, yet fear to fight ; 
Why what can it lead to at last, but sinning, 

To mental languor and moral blight ? 

Better the old slow way of striving, 

And counting small gains when the year is done, 
Than to use our force and our strength in contriving, 

And to grasp for pleasure we have not won. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



DISTRUST. 



Distrust that man who tells you to distrust ; 

He takes the measure of his own small soul, 

And thinks the world no larger. He who prates 

Of human nature's baseness and deceit 

Looks in the mirror of his heart, and sees 

His kind therein reflected. Or perchance 

The honeyed wine of life was turned to gall 

By sorrow's hand, which brimmed his cup with tears, 

And made all things seem bitter to his taste. 

Give him compassion ! But be not afraid 

Of nectared Love, or Friendship's strengthening draught, 

Nor think a poison underlies their sweets. 

Look through true eyes — you will discover truth ; 

Suspect suspicion, and doubt only doubt. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 89 

ARTIST AND MAN. 

Make thy life better than thy work. Too oft 
Our artists spend their skill in rounding soft 
Fair curves upon their statues, while the rough 
And ragged edges of the unhewn stuff 
In their own natures startle and offend 
The .eye of critic and the heart of friend. 

If in thy too brief day thou must neglect 

Thy labor or thy life, let men detect 

Flaws in thy work ! while their most searching gaze 

Can fall on nothing which they may not praise 

In thy well-chiselled character. The Man 

Should not be shadowed by the Artisan ! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE, 93 



BABYLAND. 

Have you heard of the Valley of Babyland, 
The realm where the dear little darlings stay, 

Till the kind storks go, as all men know, 
And, oh, so tenderly bring them away ? 

The paths are winding and past all finding, 
By all save the storks who understand 

The gates and the highways and the intricate byways 

That lead to Babyland. 

All over the Valley of Babyland 

Sweet flowers bloom in the soft green moss ; 

And under the ferns fair, and under the plants there, 
Lie little heads like spools of floss. 

With a soothing number the river of slumber 
Flows o'er a bedway of silver sand ; 

And angels are keeping watch o'er the sleeping 

Babes of Babyland. 



94 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

The path to the Valley of Babyland 

Only the kingly, kind storks know ; 
If they fly over mountains, or wade through fountains, 

No man sees them come or go. 
But an angel maybe, who guards some baby, 

Or a fairy perhaps, with her magic wand, 
Brings them straightway to the wonderful gateway 

That leads to Babyland. 

And there in the Valley of Babyland, 
Under the mosses and leaves and ferns, 

Like an unfledged starling, they find the darling, 
For whom the heart of a mother yearns ; 

And they lift him lightly, and snug him tightly 
In feathers soft as a lady's hand ; 

And off with a rockaway step they walk away 

Out of Babyland. 

As they go from the Valley of Babyland, 
Forth into the world of great unrest, 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 95 

Sometimes in weeping, he wakes from sleeping 

Before he reaches the mother's breast. 
Ah, how she blesses him, how she caresses him, 

Bonniest bird in the bright home band 
That o'er land and water, the kind stork brought her 

From far off Babyland ! 



96 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



A FACE. 

Between the curtains of snowy lace, 
Over the way is a baby's face ; 

It peeps forth, smiling in merry glee, 
And waves its pink little hand at me. 

My heart responds with a lonely cry — 
But in the wonderful By-and-By — 

Out from the window of God's " To Be," 
That other baby shall beckon to me. 

That ever haunting and longed-for face, 
That perfect vision of infant grace, 

Shall shine on me in a splendor of light, 
Never to fade from my eager sight. 

All that was taken shall be made good ; 

All that puzzles me understood ; 
And the wee white hand that I lost, one day, 

Shall lead me into the Better Way. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 97 

AN OLD COMRADE. 

til suddenly between me and the light, 
That brightly shone, and warm, 
Robed in the pall-like garments of the night, 
There rose a shadowy form. 

" Stand back," I said ; " you quite obscure the sun ; 

What do you want with me 1 " 
" Dost thou not know, then ! " quoth the mystic one ; 

" Look on my face and see ! " 

I looked, and, lo ! it was my old despair, 

Robed in a new disguise ; 
In blacker garments than it used to wear, 

But with the same sad eyes. 

So ghostly were the memories it awoke, 

I shrank in fear away. 
" Nay, be more kind," 'twas thus the dark shape spoke^ 

" For I have come to stay. 

7 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



" So long thy feet have trod on sunny heights, 

Such joys thy heart has known, 
Perchance thou hast forgotten those long nights, 

When we two watched alone, 

" Though sweet and dear the Pleasures thou hast met, 

And comely to thine eye, 
Has one of them, in all that bright throng yet, 

Been half so true as 1 1 

" And that last rapture which ensnared thee so 

With pleasure twin to pain, 
It was the swiftest of them all to go — 

But I — I will remain. 

" Again we two will live a thousand years, 

In desperate nights of grief, 
That shall refuse the bitter balm of tears, 

For thy bruised heart's relief. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 99 



11 Again we two will watch the hopeless dawn 

Creep up a lonely sky — 
Again we'll urge the drear day to be gone, 

Yet dread to see it die. 

u Nay, shrink not from me, for I am thy friend, 

One whom the Master sent ; 
And I shall help thee, ere we reach the end, 

To find a great content. 

" And I will give thee courage to attain, 

The heights supremely fair, 
Wherein thou'lt cry, ' How blessed was my pain ! 

How God sent my Despair !' " 

LofC. 



100 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



ENTRE-ACTE REVERIES. 

Between the acts while the orchestra played 

That sweet old waltz with the lilting measure, 
I drifted away to a dear dead day, 

When the dance, for me, was the sum of all pleasure ; 
When my veins were rife with the fever of life, 

When hope ran high as an inswept ocean, 
And my heart's great gladness was almost madness, 

As I floated off to the music's motion. 

How little I cared for the world outside ! 

How little I cared for the dull day after ! 
The thought of trouble went up like a bubble, 

And burst in a sparkle of mirthful laughter. 
Oh ! and the beat of it, oh ! and the sweet of it — 

Melody, motion, and young blood melted ; 
The dancers swaying, the players playing, 

The air song-deluged and music-pelted. 



POEMS GF PLEASURE. 101 

I knew no weariness, no, not I — 

My step was as light as the waving grasses 
That flutter with ease on the strong-armed breeze, 

As it waltzes over the wild morasses. 
Life was all sound and swing ; youth was a perfect thing j 

Night was the goddess of satisfaction. 
Oh, how I tripped away, right to the edge of day ! 

Joy lay in motion, and rest lay in action. 

I dance no more on the music's wave, 

I yield no more to its wildering power, 
That time has flown like a rose that is blown, 

Yet life is a garden forever in flower. 
Though storms of tears have watered the years, 

Between to-day and the day departed, 
Though trials have met me, and grief's waves wet me, 

And I have been tired and trouble-hearted, 

Though under the sod of a wee green grave, 
A great, sweet hope in darkness perished, 



102 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

Yet life, to my thinking, is a cup worth drinking, 
A gift to be glad of, and loved, and cherished. 

There is deeper pleasure in the slower measure 
That Time's grand orchestra now is playing. 

Its mellowed minor is sadder but finer, 

And life grows daily more worth the living. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 103 



A PLEA. 

Columbia, large-hearted and tender, 

Too long for the good of your kin 
You have shared your home's comfort and splendor 

With all who have asked to come in. 
The smile of your true eyes has lighted 

The way to your wide-open door. 
You have held out full hands, and invited 

The beggar to take from your store. 

Your overrun proud sister nations, 

Whose offspring you help them to keep, 
Are sending their poorest relations, 

Their unruly vicious black sheep ; 
Unwashed and unlettered you take them, 

And lo ! we are pushed from your knee ; 
We are governed by laws as they make them, 

We are slaves in the land of the free. 



104 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

Columbia, you know the devotion 

Of those who have sprung from your soil ; 
Shall aliens, born over the ocean, 

Dispute us the fruits of our toil 1 
Most noble and gracious of mothers, 

Your children rise up and demand 
That you bring us no more foster brothers, 

To breed discontent in the land. 

Be prudent before you are zealous, 

Not generous only — but just. 
Our hearts are grown wrathful and jealous 

Toward those who have outraged your trust. 
They jostle and crowd in our places, 

They sneer at the comforts you gave. 
We say, shut the door in their faces — 

Until they have learned to behave ! 

In hearts that are greedy and hateful, 
They harbor ill-will and deceit ; 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 105 



They ask for more favors, ungrateful 
For those you have poured at their feet. 

Rise up in your grandeur, and straightway 
Bar out the bold, clamoring mass ; 

Let sentinels stand at your gateway, 
To see who is worthy to pass. 

Give first to your own faithful toilers 

The freedom our birthright should claim, 
And take from these ruthless despoilers 

The power which they use to our shame. 
Columbia, too long you have dallied 

With foes whom you feed from your store ; 
It is time that your wardens were rallied, 

And stationed outside the locked door. 



106 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



THE ROOM BENEATH THE RAFTERS. 

Sometimes when I have dropped to sleep, 
Draped in a soft luxurious gloom, 

Across my drowsing mind will creep 
The memory of another room, 

Where resinous knots in roof boards made 

A frescoing of light and shade, 

And sighing poplars brushed their leaves 

Against the humbly sloping eaves. 

Again I fancy, in my dreams, 

I'm lying in my trundle bed ; 
I seem to see the bare old beams 

And unhewn rafters overhead. 
The mud wasp's shrill falsetto hum 
I hear again, and see him come 
Forth from his dark-walled hanging house, 
Dressed in his black and yellow blouse. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 107 

There, summer dawns, in sleep I stirred, 

And wove into my fair dream's woof 
The chattering of a martin bird, 

Or rain-drops pattering on the roof. 
Or half awake, and half in fear, 
I saw the spider spinning near 
His pretty castle where the fly 
Should come to ruin by-and-by. 

And there I fashioned from my brain 

Youth's shining structures in the air. 
I did not wholly build in vain, 

For some were lasting, firm and fair. 
And I am one who lives to say 
My life has held more gold than gray, 
And that the splendor of the real 
Surpassed my early dream's ideal. 

But still I love to wander back 

To that old time and that old place ; 



108 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



To tread my way o'er memory's track, 
And catch the early morning grace, 
In that quaint room beneath the rafter, 
That echoed to my childish laughter ; 
To dream again the dreams that grew 
More beautiful as they came true. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE, 109 

THE MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

She was my dream's fulfilment and my joy, 

This lovely woman whom you call your wife. 
You sported at your play, an idle boy, 

When I first felt the stirring of her life 
Within my startled being. I was thrilled 
With such intensity of love, it filled 
The very universe ! But words are vain — 
No man can comprehend that wild, sweet pain. 

You smiled in childhood's slumber while I felt 

The agonies of labour ; and the nights 
I, weeping, o'er the little sufferer knelt, 

You, wandering on through dreamland's fair delights. 
Flung out your lengthening limbs and slept and grew; 
While I, awake, saved this dear wife for you. 

She was my heart's loved idol and my pride. 
I taught her all those graces which you praise, 



110 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

I dreamed of coming years, when at my side 
She should lend lustre to my fading days, 
Should cling to me (as she to you clings now), 
The young fruit hanging to the withered bough. 
But lo ! the blossom was so fair a sight, 
You plucked it from me — for your own delight. 

"Well, you are worthy of her — oh, thank God — 
And yet I think you do not realize 

How burning were the sands o'er which I trod, 
To bear and rear this woman you so prize. 

It was no easy thing to see her go — 

Even into the arms of the one she worshipped so. 

How strong, how vast, how awful seems the power 
Of this new love which fills a maiden's heart, 

For one who never bore a single hour 

Of pain for her; which tears her life apart 

From all its moorings, and controls her more 

Than all the ties the years have held before ; 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. Ill 

Which crowns a stranger with a kingly grace — 
And gives the one who bore her — second place ! 

She loves me still ! and yet, were Death to say, 
"Choose now between them !" you would be her 
choice. 

God meant it to be so — it is His way. 
But can you wonder if, while I rejoice 

In her content, this thought hurts like a knife — 

" No longer necessary to her life! " 

My pleasure in her joy is bitter sweet. 

Your very goodness sometimes hurts my heart, 
Because, for her, life's drama seems complete 

Without the mother's oft-repeated part. 
Be patient with me ! She was mine so long 
Who now is yours. One must indeed be strong, 
To meet the loss without the least regret. 
And so, forgive me, if my eyes are wet. 



112 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

AN OLD FAN. 

(to kitty, her reverie.) 

It is soiled and quite passe, 

Broken too, and out of fashion, 
But it stirs my heart some way, 
As I hold it here to-day, 
"With a dead year's grace and passion. 
Oh, my pretty fan ! 

Precious dream and thrilling strain, 

Rise up from that vanished season ; 
Back to heart and nerve and brain 
Sweeps the joy as keen as pain, 
Joy that asks no cause or reason. 
Oh, my dainty fan ! 

Hopes that perished in a night 
Gaze at me like spectral faces ; 



POEMS OF PLEASURE, 113 

Grim despair and lost delight, 
Sorrow long since gone from sight — 
All are hiding in these laces. 
Oh, my broken fan ! 

Let us lay the thing away — 

I am sadder now, and older ; 
Fled the ball-room and the play — 
You have had your foolish day, 
And the night and life are colder. 

Exit -— little fan ! 



114 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

NO CLASSES ! 

No classes here ! Why, that is idle talk. 

The village beau sneers at the country boor ; 
The importuning mendicants who walk 

Our cities' streets despise the parish poor. 

The daily toiler at some noisy loom 

Holds back her garments from the kitchen aid. 

Meanwhile the latter leans upon her broom, 
Unconscious of the bow the laundress made. 

The grocer's daughter eyes the farmer's lass 
With haughty glances ; and the lawyer's wife 

Would pay no visits to the trading class, 
If policy were not her creed in life. 

The merchant's son nods coldly at the clerk ; 

The proud possessor of a pedigree 
Ignores the youth whose father rose by work ; 

The title-seeking maiden scorns all three. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 115 

The aristocracy of blood looks down 

Upon the " nouveau riche "; and in disdain, 

The lovers of the intellectual frown 

On both, and worship at the shrine of brain. 

" No classes here," the clergyman has said ; 

" We are one family." Yet see his rage 
And horror when his favorite son would wed 

Some pure and pretty player on the stage. 

It is the vain but natural human way 

Of vaunting our weak selves, our pride, our worth ! 
Not till the long-delayed millennial day 

Shall we behold " no classes " on God's earth. 



116 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



A GRAY MOOD. 

As we hurry away to the end, my friend, 

Of this sad little farce called existence, 
We are sure that the future will bring one thing, 

And that is the grave in the distance. 
And so when our lives run along all wrong, 

And nothing seems real or certain, 
We can comfort ourselves with the thought (or not) 

Of that spectre behind the curtain. 

But we haven't much time to repine or whine, 

Or to wound or jostle each other ; 
And the hour for us each is to-day, I say, 

If we mean to assist a brother. 
And there is no pleasure that earth gives birth, 

But the worry it brings is double ; 
And all that repays for the strife of life, 

Is helping some soul in trouble. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 117 

I tell you, if I could go back the track 

To my life's morning hour, 
I would not set forth seeking name or fame, 

Or that poor bauble called power. 
I would be like the sunlight, and live to give ; 

I would lend but I would not borrow ; 
Nor would I be blind and complain of pain, 

Forgetting the meaning of sorrow. 

This world is a vaporous jest at best, 

Tossed off by the gods in laughter ; 
And a cruel attempt at wit were it, 

If nothing better came after. 
It is reeking with hearts that ache and break, 

Which we ought to comfort and strengthen, 
As we hurry away to the end, my friend, 

And the shadows behind us lengthen. 



118 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



AT AN OLD DRAWER. 

Before this scarf was faded, 

What hours of mirth it knew ! 
How gayly it paraded 

For smiling eyes to view ! 
The days were tinged with glory, 

The nights too quickly sped, 
And life was like a story 

Where all the people wed. 

Before this rosebud wilted, 

How passionately sweet 
The wild waltz swelled and lilted 

In time for flying feet ! 
How loud the bassoons muttered ! 

The horns grew madly shrill ; 
And, oh, the vows lips uttered 

That hearts could not fulfill. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 119 

Before this fan was broken, 

Behind its lace and pearl 
What whispered words were spoken — 

What hearts were in a whirl ! 
What homesteads were selected 

In Fancy's realm of Spain ! 
What castles were erected, 

Without a room for pain ! 

When this odd glove was mated, 

How thrilling seemed the play ! 
May be our hearts are sated — 

They tire so soon to-day. 
Oh, shut away those treasures, 

They speak the dreary truth — . 
We have outgrown the pleasures 

And keen delights of youth. 



120 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

THE OLD STAGE QUEEN. 

Back in the box by the curtains shaded, 

She sits alone by the house unseen ; 
Her eye is dim, her cheek is faded, 

She who was once the people's queen. 

The curtain rolls up, and she sees before her 
A vision of beauty and youth and grace. 

Ah ! no wonder all hearts adore her, 
Silver-throated and fair of face. 

Out of her box she leans and listens ; 

Oh, is it with pleasure or with despair 
That her thin cheek pales and her dim eye glistens, 

While that fresh young voice sings the grand old air? 

She is back again in the Past's bright splendor — 
When life seemed worth living, and love a truth, 

Ere Time had told her she must surrender 
Her double dower of fame and youth. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 121 

It is she herself who stands there singing 

To that sea of faces that shines and stirs ; 
And the cheers on cheers that go up ringing 

And rousing the echoes — are hers — all hers. 

Just for one moment the sweet delusion 

Quickens her pulses and blurs her sight, 
And wakes within her that wild confusion 

Of joy that is anguish and fierce delight. 

Then the curtain goes down and the lights are gleaming 

Brightly o'er circle and box and stall. 
She starts like a sleeper who wakes from dreaming — 

Her past lies under a funeral pall. 

Her day is dead and her star descended, 

Never to rise or shine again ; 
Her reign is over — her Queenship ended — 

A new name is sounded and sung by men. 



122 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

All the glitter and glow and splendor, 

All the glory of that lost day, 
With the friends that seemed true, and the love that 
seemed tender, 

Why, what is it all but a dead bouquet 1 

She rises to go. Has the night turned colder 1 ? 

The new Queen answers to call and shout ; 
And the old Queen looks back over her shoulder, 

Then all unnoticed she passes out. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 123 



FAITH. 

I will not doubt, though all my ships at sea 

Come drifting home with broken masts and sails ; 

I shall believe the Hand which never fails, 
From seeming evil worketh good for me ; 

And though I weep because those sails are battered, 
Still will I cry, while my best hopes lie shattered, 
" I trust in thee." 

I will not doubt, though all my prayers return 
Unanswered from the still, white Realm above ; 

I shall believe it is an all-wise Love 

Which has refused those things for which I yearn ; 

And though at times I cannot keep from grieving, 
Yet the pure ardor of my fixed believing 

Undimmed shall burn. 

I will not doubt, though sorrows fall like rain, 
And troubles swarm like bees about a hive j 



124 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

I shall believe the heights for which I strive 
Are only reached by anguish and by pain ; 

And though I groan and tremble with my crosses, 
I yet shall see, through my severest losses, 
The greater gain. 

I will not doubt ; well anchored in the faith, 
Like some staunch ship, my soul braves every gale, 

So strong its courage that it will not fail 

To breast the mighty unknown sea of Death. 

Oh, may I cry when body parts with spirit, 

" I do not doubt," so listening worlds may hear it, 
With my last breath. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 125 



THE TRUE KNIGHT. 

We sigh above historic pages, 

Brave with the deeds of courtly men, 

And wish those peers of middle ages 
In our dull day could live again. 

And yet no knight or Troubadour began 

In chivalry with the American. 

He does not frequent joust or tourney, 

And flaunt his lady's colors there ; 
But in the tedium of a journey, 

He shows that deferential care — 
That thoughtful kindness to the sex at large, 
Which makes each woman feel herself his charge. 

He does not challenge foes to duel, 

To win his lady's cast-off glove, 
But proves in ways less rash and cruel, 

The truth and fervor of his love. 



126 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

Not by bold deeds, but by his reverent mien, 
He pays his public tribute to his Queen. 

He may not shine with courtly graces, 
But yet, his kind, respectful air 

To woman, whatsoe'er her place is, 
It might be well if kings could share. 

So, for the chivalric true gentleman, 

Give me, I say, our own American. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 127 

THE CITY. 

I own the charms of lovely Nature ; still, 

In human nature more delight I find. 
Though sweet the murmuring voices of the rill, 

I much prefer the voices of my kind. 

I like the roar of cities. In the mart, 

Where busy toilers strive for place and gain, 

I seem to read humanity's great heart, 

And share its hopes, its pleasures, and its pain. 

The rush of hurrying trains that cannot wait. 

The tread of myriad feet, all say to me : 
" You are the architect of your own fate ; 

Toil on, hope on, and dare to do and be." 

I like the jangled music of the loud 

Bold bells ; the whistle's sudden shrill reply ; 

And there is inspiration in a crowd — 
A magnetism flashed from eye to eye. 



128 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

My sorrows all seem lightened and my joys 

Augmented when the comrade world walks near ; 

Close to mankind my soul best keeps its poise. 
Give me the great town's bustle, strife, and noise, 
And let who will, hold Nature's calm more dear. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 129 

WOMAN. 

Give us that grand word " woman" once again, 
And let's have done with "lady": one's a term 
Full of fine force, strong, beautiful, and firm, 
Fit for the noblest use of tongue or pen ; 
And one's a word for lackeys. One suggests 
The Mother, "Wife, and Sister ! One the dame 
Whose costly robe, mayhap, gives her the name. 
One word upon its own strength leans and rests ; 
The other minces tiptoe. Who would be 
The perfect woman must grow brave of heart 
And broad of soul to play her troubled part 
Well in life's drama. While each day we see 
The " perfect lady " skilled in what to do 
And what to say, grace in each tone and act 
( 'Tis taught in schools, but needs some native tact), 
Yet narrow in her mind as in her shoe. 
Give the first place then to the nobler phrase, 
And leave the lesser word for lesser praise. 



130 POEMS OF PLEASURE, 

THE SOUL'S FAREWELL TO THE BODY 

So we must part forever ; and although 
I long have beat my wings and cried to go, 
Free from your narrow limiting control, 
Forth into space, the true home of the soul, 

Yet now, yet now that hour is drawing near, 
I pause reluctant, finding you so dear. 
All joys await me in the realm of God — 
Must you, my comrade, moulder in the sod 1 

I was your captive, yet you were my slave ; 
Your prisoner, yet obedience you gave 
To all my earnest wishes and commands. 
Now to the worm I leave those willing hands 

That toiled for me or held the books I read, 

Those feet that trod where'er I wished to tread, 

Those arms that clasped my dear ones, and the breast 
On which one loved and loving heart found rest, 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 131 

Those lips through which my prayers to God have risen, 
Those eyes that were the windows to my prison. 
From these, all these, Death's Angel bids me sever ; 
Dear Comrade Body, fare thee well forever ! 

I go to my inheritance, and go 

With joy that only the freed soul can know ; 

Yet in my spirit wanderings I trust 

I may sometimes pause near your sacred dust. 



1?2 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

THIMBLE ISLANDS. 
(off long island sound.) 

Between the shore and the distant sky-lands, 

Where a ship's dim shape seems etched on space, 

There lies this cluster of lovely islands, 
Like laughing mermaids grouped in grace. 

I look out over the waves and wonder, 
Are they not sirens who dwell in the sea? 

When the tide runs high they dip down under, 
Like mirthful bathers who sport in glee. 

When the tide runs low they lift their shoulders 
Above the billows and gayly spread 

Their soft green garments along the boulders 
Of grim gray granite that form their bed. 

Close by the group, in sheltered places, 
Many a ship at anchor lies, 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 133 

And drinks the charm of their smiling faces, 
As lovers drink smiles from maidens' eyes. 

But true to the harsh and stern old ocean, 

As maids in a harem are true to one, 
They give him all of their hearts' devotion, 

Though wooed forever by moon and sun. 

A ship sails on that has bravely waded 
Through foaming billows to sue in vain ; 

A whip-poor-will flies that has serenaded 
And sung unanswered his plaintive strain. 

In the sea's great arms I see them lying, 

Bright'and beaming and fond and fair, 
While the jealous July day is dying 

In a crimson fury of mad despair. 

The desolate moon drifts slowly over, 

And covers its face with the lace of a cloud, 

"While the sea, like a glad triumphant lover v 
Clasps close his islands and laughs aloud. 



134 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



MY GRAVE. 

If, when I die, I must be buried, let 

No cemetery engulph me — no lone grot, 

Where the great palpitating world comes not, 

Save when, with heart bowed down and eyelids wet, 

It pays its last sad melancholy debt 

To some outjourneying pilgrim. May my lot 

Be rather to lie in some much-used spot, 

Where human life, with all its noise and fret, 

Throbs on about me. Let the roll of wheels, 

With all earth's sounds of pleasure, commerce, love, 

And rush of hurrying feet surge o'er my head. 

Even in my grave I shall be one who feels 

Close kinship with the pulsing world above ; 

And too deep silence would distress me, dead. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. . 135 

REFUTED. 
" Anticipation is sweeter than realization" 

It may be, yet I have not found it so. 

In those first golden dreams of future fame 

I did not find such happiness as came 
When toil was crowned with triumph. Now I know 
My words have recognition and will go 

Straight to some listening heart my early aim 

To win the idle glory of a name 
Pales like a candle in the noonday's glow. 

So with the deeper joys of which I dreamed : 

Life yields more rapture than did childhood's fancies. 

And each year brings more pleasure than I waited. 
Friendship proves truer than of old it seemed, 

And, all beyond youth's passion-hued romances, 

Love is more perfect than anticipated. 



136 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



THE LOST LAND. 

There is a story of a beauteous land, 

Where fields were fertile and where flowers were bright; 

Where tall towers glistened in the morning light, 

Where happy children wandered hand in hand, 

Where lovers wrote their names upon the sand. 

They say it vanished from all human sight, 

The hungry sea devoured it in a night. 

You doubt the tale ? ah, you will understand ; 

For, as men muse upon that fable old, 

They give sad credence always at the last, 

However they have cavilled at its truth, 

When with a tear-dimmed vision they behold, 

Swift sinking in the ocean of the Past, 

The lovely lost Atlantis of their Youth. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 13, 



THE SOUTH. 

A queen of indolence and idle grace, 

Robed in the vestments of a costly gown, 

She turns the languor of her lovely face 
Upon progression with a lazy frown. 
Her throne is built upon a marshy down ; 

Malarial mosses wreathe her like old lace ; 

With slim crossed feet, unshod and bare and brown, 

She sits indifferent to the world's swift race. 

Across the seas there stalks an ogre grim : 
Too languid she for even fear's alarms, 
While frightened nations rally in defence, 

She lifts her smiling Creole eyes to him, 

And reaching out her shapely unwashed arms, 
She clasps her rightful lover — Pestilence. 



1^8 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

A SAILOR'S WIFE. 

(her memory.) 

Sun in my lattice, and sun on the sea 

(Oh, but the sun is fair), 
And a sky of blue and a sea of green, 
And a ship with a white, white sail between, 

And a light wind blowing free — 
And back from the stern, and forth from the land, 
The last farewell of a waving hand. 

Mist on the window and mist on the sea 

(Oh, but the mist is gray), 
And the weird, tall shape of a spectral mast 
Gleams out of the fog like a ghost of my past, 

And the old hope stirs in me — 
The old, old hope that warred with doubt, 
While the years with the tides surged in and out. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 139 

Rain on my window and rain on the sea 

(Oh, but the rain is sad), 
And only the dreams of a vanished barque 
And a vanished youth shine through the dark, 

And torture the night and me. 
But somewhere, I think, near some fair strand, 
That lost ship lies with its waving hand. 



140 POEMS OF PLEASURE, 



LIFE'S JOURNEY. 

As we speed out of youth's sunny station, 

The track seems to shine in the light, 
But it suddenly shoots over chasms 

Or sinks into tunnels of night. 
And the hearts that were brave in the morning 

Are filled with repining and fears, 
As they pause at the City of Sorrow 

Or pass through the Valley of Tears. 

But the road of this perilous journey 

The hand of the Master has made ; 
With all its discomforts and dangers, 

We need not be sad or afraid. 
Paths leading from light into darkness, 

Ways plunging from gloom to dispair, 
Wind out through the tunnels of midnight 

To fields that are blooming and fair. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 141 

Though the rocks and the shadows surround us, 

Though we catch not one gleam of the day, 
Above us fair cities are laughing, 

And dipping white feet in some bay. 
And always, eternal, forever, 

Down over the hills in the west, 
The last final end of our journey, 

There lies the Great Station of Rest. 

'Tis the Grand Central point of all railways, 

All roads unite here when they end ; 
'Tis the final resort of all tourists. 

All rival lines meet here and blend. 
All tickets, all mile-books, all passes, 

If stolen or begged for or bought, 
On whatever road or division, 

Will bring you at last to this spot. 

If you pause at the City of Trouble, 
Or wait in the Valley of Tears, 



142 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

Be patient, the train will move onward, 
And rush down the track of the years. 

Whatever the place is you seek for, 
Whatever your game or your quest, 

You shall come at the last with rejoicing 
To the beautiful City of Rest. 

You shall store all your baggage of worries, 

You shall feel perfect peace in this realm, 
You shall sail with old friends on fair waters, 

With joy and delight at the helm. 
You shall wander in cool, fragrant gardens 

With those who have loved you the best, 
And the hopes that were lost in life's journey 

You shall find in the City of Rest. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 143 

THE DISAPPOINTED. 

There are songs enough for the hero 

Who dwells on the heights of fame \ 
I sing for the disappointed — 

For those who missed their aim. 

I sing with a tearful cadence 

For one who stands in the dark, 
And knows that his last, best arrow 

Has bounded back from the mark. 

I sing for the breathless runner, 

The eager, anxious soul, 
Who falls with his strength exhausted, 

Almost in sight of the goal ; 

For the hearts that break in silence, 

With a sorrow all unknown, 
For those who need companions, 

Yet walk their ways alone. 



144 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



There are songs enough for the lovers 
Who share love's tender pain, 

I sing for the one whose passion 
Is given all in vain. 

For those whose spirit comrades 
Have missed them on the way, 

I sing, with a heart o'erflowing, 
This minor strain to-day. 

And I know the Solar system 
Must somewhere keep in space 

A prize for that spent runner 
Who barely lost the race. 

For the plan would be imperfect 
Unless it held some sphere 

That paid for the toil and talent 
And love that are wasted here. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 145 



FISHING. 



Maybe this is fun, sitting in the sun, 

With a book and parasol, as my Angler wishes, 

While he dips his line in the ocean brine, 

Under the impression that his bait will catch the fishes. 

Tis romantic, yes, but I must confess 

Thoughts of shady rooms at home somehow seem more 
inviting. 
But I dare not move — " Quiet, there, my love ! " 

Says my Angler, "for I think a monster fish is biting." 
Oh, of course it's bliss, but how hot it is ! 

And the rock I'm sitting on grows harder every minute; 
Still my fisher waits, trying various baits, 

But the basket at his side I see has nothing in it. 

Oh, it's just the way to pass a July day, 

Arcadian and sentimental, dreamy, idle, charming, 
10 



146 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

But how fierce the sunlight falls ! and the way that insect crawls 
Along my neck and down my back is really quite alarming. 

" Any luck ? " I gently ask of the angler at his task, 

"There's something pulling at my line, "he says; "I've 
almost caught it." 

But when, with blistered face, we our homeward steps retrace, 
We take the little basket just as empty as we brought it. 



f» 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 147 



A PIN. 



Oh, I know a certain lady who is reckoned with the good, 
Yet she fills me with more terror than a raging lion would. 
The little chills run up and down my spine whene'er we meet, 
Though she seems a gentle creature, and she's very trim 
and neat. 

And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin, 

But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin. 

And she pricks you and she sticks you in a way that can't 

be said. 
If you seek for what has hurt you — why, you cannot find 

the head ! 

But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain. 

If anybody asks you why, you really can't explain ! 

A pin is such a tiny thing, of that there is no doubt, 

Yet when it's sticking in your flesh you're wretched till it's out. 



148 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 

She is wonderfully observing — when she meets a pretty girl, 
She is always sure to tell her if her hair is out of curl ; 
And she is so sympathetic to her friend who's much admired, 
She is often heard remarking, " Dear, you look so worn and 
tired." 



And she is an honest critic, for on yesterday she eyed 
The new dress I was airing with a woman's natural pride, 
And she said, " Oh, how becoming ! " and then gently added, " it 
Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit." 



Then she said, " If you had heard me y ester eve, I'm sure, 

my friend, 
You would say I was a champion who knows how to defend." 
And she left me with the feeling — most unpleasant, I aver — 
That the whole world would despise me if it hadn't been for her. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 149 



Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way 
She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day. 
And the hat that was imported (and which cost me half a 

sonnet), 
With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery 

bonnet. 

She is always bright and smiling, sharp and pointed for 

a thrust. 
Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust. 
Oh ! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin 
To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin ! 



150 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



THE ACTOR. 

Oh, man, with your wonderful dower, 

Oh, woman, with genius and grace, 
You can teach the whole world with your power, 

If you are but worthy the place. 
The stage is a force and a factor 

In moulding the thought of the day, 
If only the heart of the actor 

Is high as the theme of the play. 

No discourse or sermon can reach us 

Through feeling to reason like you ; 
No author can stir us and teach us 

With lessons as subtle and true. 
Your words and your gestures obeying, 

We weep or rejoice with your part, 
And the player, behind all his playing, 

He ought to be great as his art. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 151 

No matter what role you are giving, 

No matter what skill you betray, 
The everyday life you are living, 

Is certain to color the play. 
The thoughts we call secret and hidden 

Are creatures of malice, in fact. 
They steal forth unseen and unbidden, 

And permeate motive and act. 

The genius that shines like a comet 

Fills only one part of God's plan, 
If the lesson the world derives from it 

Is marred by the life of the man. 
Be worthy your work if you love it ; 

The king should be fit for the crown ; 
Stand high as your art, or above it, 

And make us look up and not down. 



152 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



ILLOGICAL. 

She stood beside me while I gave an order 

for a bonnet. 

She shuddered when I said, " And put a 

bright bird's wing upon it.' 1 

A member of the Audubon Society was she ; 
And cutting were her comments made on 

worldly folks like me. 

She spoke about the helpless birds we wickedly 

were harming; 

She quoted the statistics, and they really 

were alarming ; 

She said God meant his little birds to sing 

in trees and skies; 

And there was pathos in her voice, and 

tears were in her eyes. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 153 

" Oh, surely in this beauteous world you 

can find lovely things 

Enough to trim your hats," she said, " with- 
out the dear birds' wings." 

1 sat beside hei that same day, in her 

own house at dinner, 
Angelic being that she was, to entertain 

a sinner ! 

Her well-appointed table groaned 

beneath the ample spread 
Course followed appetizing course, and 

hunger sated fled ; 

But still my charming hostess urged, " Do 

have a reed-bird, dear, 

They are so delicate and sweet 

at this time of the year." 



154 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



NEW YEAR. 

I saw on the hills of the morning, 

The form of the New Year arise, 
He stood like a statue adorning 

The world with a background of skies. 
There were courage and grace in his beautiful face, 

And hope in his glorious eyes. 

" I come from Time's boundless forever," 

He said, with a voice like a song. 
" I come as a friend to endeavor, 

I come as a foe to all wrong. 
To the sad and afraid I bring promise of aid > 

And the weak I will gird and make strong. 

" I bring you more blessings than terrors, 
I bring you more sunlight than gloom, 



rOEMS OF PLEASURE. 155 



I tear out your page of old errors, 
And hide them away in Time's tomb. 

I reach you clean hands, and lead on to the lands 
Where the lilies of peace are in bloom." 



156 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



NEW YEAR. 

As the old year sinks down in Time's ocean, 

Stand ready to launch with the new, 
And waste no regrets, no emotion, 

As the masts and the spars pass from view. 
Weep not if some treasures go under, 

And sink in the rotten ship's hold, 
That blithe bonny barque sailing yonder 

May bring you more wealth than the old. 

For the world is forever improving, 

All the past is not worth one to-day, 
And whatever deserves our true loving, 

Is stronger than death or decay. 
Old love, was it wasted devotion ? 

Old friends, were they weak or untrue 1 
Well, let them sink there in mid ocean, 

And gaily sail on to the new. 



POEMS OF PLEASURE. 157 

Throw overboard toil misdirected, 

Throw overboard ill-advised hope^ 
With aims which, your soul has detected, 

Have self as their centre and scope. 
Throw overboard useless regretting 

For deeds which you cannot undo, 
And learn the great art of forgetting 

Old things which embitter the new. 

Sing who will of dead years departed, 

I shroud them and bid them adieu, 
And the song that I sing, happy-hearted, 

Is a song of the glorious new. 



158 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 



NOW. 

One looks behind him to some vanished time 
And says. " Ah, I was happy then, alack ! 

I did not know it was my life's best prime — 
Oh, if I could go back ! " 

Another looks, with eager eyes aglow, 

To some glad day of joy that yet will dawn, 

And sighs, " I shall be happy then, I know. 
Oh, let me hurry on." 

But I — I look out on my fair To-day ; 

I clasp it close and kiss its radiant brow. 
Here with the perfect present let me stay, 

For I am happy now ! 



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